


Ich will, dass ihr mich versteht

by PhookaUpsidedown



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Gen, M/M, ich will verse, organized crime: the bandfic, they're all real big dorks for being criminals but what are u gonna do
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-01-16 06:10:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18515503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhookaUpsidedown/pseuds/PhookaUpsidedown
Summary: They're a gang. Five men who work well together and don't fight (too much). They could have stayed as five forever. But of course, Till isn't going to argue with six.





	1. Aljoscha's Man

One of Aljoscha’s men. What exactly was he to do with one of Aljoscha’s men when the last one that had been sent to him was Paul? Till scrubbed a large hand over his face, thinking what it might be like to have two Pauls hanging around when he was trying to run smooth operations. Paul himself was already prone to fits of laughter and not taking things seriously, and the last thing that Till needed was two-thirds of the Three Stooges in his gang. The man sighed and stared at the phone that he’d just hung up. There was no curse that Till knew that was strong enough for Emanuel Fialik, in any language, and he didn’t have the time to make one up. Aljoscha’s men.

Grumbling under his breath, Till stood from his desk and swung his office door open with his cane. Business was as usual on the other side, a small warehouse for Till and the four other men that practically lived there. Ollie was curled up on one side of the couch, watching the game on tv that Schneider was controlling. It was Doom again. It was always Doom when Schneider had a minute to himself when he wasn’t passed out or eating. At least Ollie seemed to be enjoying it, a grin on his face and his eyes barely leaving the screen.

Off at a folding table, Paul and Richard were…playing Slap Jack. Of course they were. Every once in a while, Paul would let out a yelping noise as Richard’s fake hand would come slamming down on top of his, either because there was a jack or because Paul had jumped the gun and Richard thought it was punishment to slam his hand into the table. Either way, it was typical. So Till just had to warn them that someone would be coming in and, no, they weren’t supposed to shoot him.

“Emu’s decided we need more help, so when someone walks in in about…ten minutes, don’t shoot him unless he’s Paul’s twin.”

“Hey!” Paul protested as Till sat on the other side of Schneider, sparing the game a glance.

“For horses,” Till answered, squinting at the tv screen. “Schneider, why is it that you’re a better aim in this game than in real life?”

Schneider didn’t even answer, just drove an elbow into Till’s side and kept shooting demons. Till looked over Schneider’s head at Ollie, and the bald man was very obviously trying not to giggle. Well, that was a victory for Till at the expense of Schneider’s bad eye.

“I’m kidding, Schneider, you’re a great shot.”

“I know I am,” Schneider responded, suddenly jumping up from the couch. “Fuck!”

“Did you die?” Ollie asked quietly, though Till could tell he already knew the answer.

“Yeah. Fuck. Shit,” Schneider hissed, flopping back onto the couch, this time with his elbows resting on his knees. “I don’t even know what happened, I just died.”

“I thought you’ve beaten this game before,” remarked Till, raising an eyebrow at the younger man, whose mismatched eyes were trained on the screen again.

“I have. Forty-nine times.”

Till felt his mouth drop open slightly and his brows furrow in what was basically shock. Who had the time to play a game that often? Till himself could barely find time to figure out what button turned the damn toy on, much less finish a game on it. Did Schneider do anything else or did Till just not give him enough to do?

“Ow! Risch!”

There was a cackle in the vague direction of behind Till, and he turned to see what was happening. Paul, face scrunched, was shaking his hand as Richard doubled over laughing, face down on the table. Apparently, Richard had smacked Paul’s hand again, but probably even harder than what he’d been doing. Paul’s response was to smack the back of Richard’s head, which made Richard swear, and they were both staring at each other across the table, challenging smirks on their faces. Before Till could get out a ‘no’, Richard was halfway around the table, an arm yanking at Paul and pulling him to the ground. Schneider let out an annoyed sort of growl, but Till couldn’t tell if it was at them or the game. Most likely, it was the latter.

With a growl of his own, Till made himself stand, his bad leg always making it slower than he’d like. Still, once he was up it didn’t take but two decent whacks with his cane to get the wrestling to stop. Soon enough, he was looking down at them both, Paul with two hands on his head and swearing, and Richard staring up at his oldest friend like he’d been absolutely betrayed.

“You can go back to that when someone’s not going to be having their first day with us,” Till warned, taking a step back and pointing with the end of his cane.

“Yeah, yeah,” Richard grumbled, pulling himself up before offering his hand to Paul. “Now, Paul, are you gonna stop trying to slap all the cards? Have you learned?”

“I’m going to slap them just to make you madder now that you can’t tackle me, honestly.”

Till sighed, but hey, at least his boys could be honest with each other. At least Paul could about being annoying. Again, Till sighed, but only because he was thinking about getting another of Aljoscha’s men in with his. He’d done well with just him and Richard, Schneider had been a welcome addition, and then Ollie always found a way to make himself useful. Paul was the newest addition, having moved up in general ranks to be able to join Till’s gang from Aljoscha’s. It wasn’t that Aljoscha’s men were bad, they were just…not nearly as serious as one would expect from people so high up in organized crime. They had always gotten the job done, but in between jobs they were a real handful, as far as Till could tell. He held on to a small bit of hope that they weren’t all Paul, but having met Aljoscha, and worked under him, Till was almost sure that this one might be.

A thudding knock on the metal sliding door made the five of them freeze, from Schneider pausing his game to Richard and Paul stopping with their hands about to come down on a stack of cards, the group simply staring at the door. After a moment of nothing, Till felt four pairs of eyes on him, and he hobbled over to the door, sliding it open with one hefty pull. It was very easy to say that the guy on the other side of the door was no Paul. No, he was much too tall, for one thing, nearly as tall as Ollie, who was practically a tree. His hair was bleached, though, the same color as Paul’s. Too early to tell.

There was almost tense silence as Till examined this man of Aljoscha’s. He looked sort of awkward, but not bad, tall and too skinny, and didn’t fill out his clothes. The white t-shirt he was wearing was the right length, but the collar was askew and came about halfway to his shoulder, and the black pants weren’t baggy, but too short. He wore boots, almost falling apart, but clean enough, and then Till decided to look at his face. His head was skinny, too, in a way, all angles, cut only by rounded tortoise shell glasses. Behind them, he noticed that blue eyes were examining him, as well, a very precise and possibly impressed gaze trained on him.

“Emu sent you? From Aljoscha?”

“Yes.”

Till had to admit that his voice was deeper than he’d expected. Not deep, like Till himself, or Schneider, not really, but Till had somehow thought he’d sound…closer to Paul or Ollie, maybe. Or maybe he was judging too much off of one word.

“Come in, then, meet the others,” Till said, a half-command as he turned back into the warehouse, fully aware of all the eyes that had been on him, at least. “New guy’s here.”

Till had barely gotten his sentence out before Paul was yelling again, jumping out of his seat so quickly that the folding chair went clattering to the ground.

“Flake!” was what Till thought he heard as Paul barreled past him, slamming into the new guy with a very powerful and extremely Paul hug.

Till looked to the others first, taking in Ollie’s little grin, Schneider’s expression of pure confusion, and Richard’s almost offence, before turning to look at what was happening behind him. Paul was still hugging the newcomer, beaming as he did and either not noticing or ignoring the fact that the other blond was completely shocked, embarrassed, or both.

“Flake!” Paul said again, and apparently that was this guy’s name. What sort of a name was ‘Flake’? “Why are you here?”

“I’m working with you,” Flake said bluntly with a shrug of a bony shoulder. “That’s what Emu said at least.”

“How mad was Aljoscha about losing you, too?” Paul asked, still not letting go of the skinny man fully, and Till wondered if the hold Paul had on bony hips was a Paul thing or something else.

“Ah, you know Aljoscha. Happy to see me move up, I think,” Flake answered with another noncommittal shrug. “Are you going to keep hogging me or do I get to meet anyone else?”

Paul’s eyes widened, like he had just remembered that other people were around at all, and Till shook his head. Typical Paul, really. Got caught up in things very easily. The broad man crossed his arms and gave Paul a raise of an eyebrow as a ‘go ahead’. Since Paul apparently knew him so well, he could do the introductions, if he liked. Paul beamed at him in return, keeping an arm around Flake’s middle. Flake, apparently used to this behavior, and probably knowing he wasn’t going anywhere any time soon, loosely draped an arm around Paul’s shoulders.

“Sorry!” Paul announced to the larger group. “This is Flake! I’ve known him for…twelve years and he’s great!” Flake rolled his eyes at that but didn’t say anything. “We started working for Aljoscha when I was eighteen and he was sixteen, so I know he’s good at what he does.” A small nod from the taller man, like he couldn’t argue. “He’s very smart, too, so watch your mouths because he’ll tell you if you’re being dumb. Uh, anyway, Flake, the baby on the couch is Ollie, he’s an angel, and I think you remember Schneider, right? We had a job with him.” Another nod, and Schneider grinned, friendly. “Richard’s at the card table, and no you can’t call him a hedgehog, and then…you met our glorious leader, Till.”

“That I did,” Flake remarked, and the way he said it had Till wondering if he was being sarcastic or if he agreed with Paul’s description.

“So…Flake?” Richard asked, thankfully voicing what Till had wondered earlier.

“Nickname,” the tall blonde said off-handedly. “Since I was a kid.”

“What’s your real name, then?”

Flake raised an eyebrow at Richard’s questioning. “Christian. I don’t really answer to it, though, so there’s no point in you calling me that.”

Richard stared at Flake, almost in a challenge that Flake easily returned, and Till had to hold back a laugh because he knew it was probably over Paul. Though Till was Richard’s best friend, Paul was a work in progress, and Richard wasn’t always the best at sharing. Apparently, Flake was going to be competition. Interesting.

“Well, Flake,” Till started, shooting Richard a glance, “I do need to know exactly how good you are, so we’re going shooting.”

“Hold on, let me finish this level!” called Schneider, who had apparently started up his game again, that little shit.

“Alright, going shooting after Schneider finishes or dies,” Till amended, putting the emphasis on ‘or dies’ just as Schneider did, in fact, end up dying. “Okay, well, there we go, come on.”

“Fuck!”


	2. Good Shot

 

 The shooting range was all theirs, though this wasn’t a surprise, seeing as only people they worked with were allowed in the building at all. Till had decided that they all needed a bit of practice, but really he was there to see if Flake was a decent shot or what. On the way over, he’d learned that Flake used to drive getaway for Aljoscha, and Paul proudly said that Flake was the reason Aljoscha’s gang had never had anyone get caught during a getaway attempt. Richard, in the passenger seat of the van, scoffed, but shut up when Schneider popped in with a comment that Flake was definitely a good driver. Till was going to have to test that out, too, then. He was going to be busy.

 Either way, once inside and outfitted with guns and earplugs, because there was no sense in losing their hearing just yet, Till let his men get to it. Schneider was professional and dead on as always, with Ollie as a close second. Paul was, to put it lightly, easily distracted, and nearly half of his shots went wide, though once he was in actual danger, Till knew he rarely missed. Richard would have done better if he hadn’t been teasing Paul the whole time. And then it was down to Flake, who took up a pistol and eyed it coldly. He might need glasses, but Till could tell his eyes didn’t miss much.

 “Go ahead, then.”

 Flake didn’t need more prompting, raising his skinny arms to aim at the paper target on the other side of the range. Till found himself worrying, in the back of his mind, if the kickback might hurt him, but the worry went away after Flake started firing. They were all made in quick succession, and Flake was unplugging his ears shortly after, the target moving toward them. Till scrutinized the paper cut out, looking exactly where the bullets had hit. They weren’t all grouped together like everyone else’s, but spread out, and it took Till a moment to realize what he’d done.

 “You aim for arteries?”

 Flake nodded. “Yes. That lowers the chance of living through it.”

 Richard scoffed nearby, making his presence known. “Why don’t you just shoot them in the head, then?”

 Flake spared Richard a glance, before putting his pistol down. “Headshots are hard to make when one or both people are moving, and besides, people have survived them before.”

 “What are you, a doctor?”

 “He was studying to be one!” Paul, chipper as ever, had made his way over to them, looking at Flake’s target, smiling as widely as he could. “Good shots, Flake!”

 Paul held his hand up for a high five, and though Flake looked like he wasn’t going to do anything but look at Paul’s hand, he did gently tap it with his own. To Paul, that seemed like a victory. Till noticed that Richard just looked annoyed, especially when Paul took the opportunity to just grab Flake’s hand and hold it. Till still had to wonder if that was just a Paul thing, or if it was something else. Flake definitely didn’t seem to mind it, and that was after he’d pulled one hell of a face when Schneider touched his shoulder getting into the van.

 “The real question is, can you do it again?”

 Flake made a face, crossed his arms for a moment. “I just did it, and nobody else has to go again, so why should I?”

 Till raised an eyebrow. Though his gang were his friends, his brothers, first and foremost, they usually didn’t question it when he implied that they should do something. This scarecrow of a man definitely wasn’t stupid, which meant he just didn’t give a damn about a hierarchy. Till couldn’t decide if he liked that or not.

 “Because I asked.”

 Till couldn’t tell if it was his even tone or the pinch Paul gave the man’s ribs, but Flake nodded and went to reload his weapon, not going to argue even though he clearly wanted to. He hung up another target, sent it out, and as soon as it had come to a rest, was shooting again, blue eyes focused intently on his shooting. When the round ran out, Flake let the gun rest on the ledge again, and turned a challenging gaze toward Till, making it clear that he had better not have to prove himself again. Till grinned, clapping a large hand on Flake’s shoulder. The tall bleach-blond glanced at the place of contact but didn’t grimace. Interesting.

 “Good job,” Till said bluntly.

 “Thanks,” Flake returned, sounding about the same, though Till noticed an interested spark behind the glasses before Paul gently tugged his arm and his attention turned to the shortest among them.

 “See, I told you Flake was good,” Paul said proudly, like it was all his doing and nobody else’s that Flake was at all impressive in any sense of the word. “And he’s even better at driving and patching people up. He’s the reason my face is still any good.”

 Till had always wondered who exactly had helped Paul out, after his face had been burned. Till knew that Paul had gotten burned while under Aljoscha, in a kidnapping incident for information that Paul partially didn’t have and partially didn’t give. From what Till and Richard had learned at the time, the burn on the left side of Paul’s face would have been much worse if not for fast, effective first aid. And now they knew who gave the happy little Paul his chance to not have some worse scarring, the one who Paul had never mentioned by name but always spoke of glowingly, like he had been a knight in shining armor.

 “It was you that helped Paul?” Richard asked, and Till wondered if Richard was more incredulous or jealous, or if it was a perfect mix in his voice.

 “Yes,” Flake answered after a moment of biting the inside of his cheek. “I didn’t do as well as I would have liked, but yes, I helped.”

 Till watched Flake silently for a moment, noting a very familiar look in eyes that weren’t even his. Most of Flake was the same, carefully controlled and barely moving, even as Paul wrapped both of his arms around one of Flake’s. The eyes, though, were those of someone who was still mad that they couldn’t protect someone they cared about. Till knew that look far too well.

 “He’s being modest,” Paul stated, giving Flake’s arm a squeeze. “I’d look like a stunt double for Nightmare on Elm Street without him.”

 Flake shook his head, so minutely that Till was probably the only one he noticed, but to the rest of the world just shrugged. He shrugged a lot. “Maybe,” he said simply. “I still think you overdo it when you talk about me, Paulchen.”

 If Till himself hadn’t been internally taken aback by the sudden nickname, he might have laughed over Richard being visibly taken aback by it. So Paul was ‘Little Paul’ to this guy, then? It was a cutesy sort of nickname, one that was probably carried over from childhood or something that would have made them equally as close. This just kept getting more ambiguous, seeing as Paul had never mentioned Flake. That would have made sense, to keep him a secret, if they were together. Till, remembering that Schneider had worked with them before, shot the young man a questioning look. Schneider just shrugged. So he didn’t know, either.

 “I don’t. You deserve it.”

 If Till knew Richard, and he did, he wouldn’t be surprised if his best friend just decided to remove his fake hand for the sake of hitting both Paul and Flake across the face with it. So Till intervened.

 “Risch, let’s take a smoke break. The rest of you, keep practicing. Flake, you can drive us back when we’re ready to go.”

 Flake simply nodded at Till as the large man tapped Richard with his cane to get him moving, and soon enough, the two main founders of their little operation were outside, a cigarette hanging from Richard’s mouth so quickly that Till had a bit of trouble believing it hadn’t materialized there.

 “What the fuck, Till?” Richard exploded, apparently having gathered why Till had gotten him out. “Paulchen? Fucking Paulchen? Paul never said he was seeing anyone!”

 Till shook his head, calmly watching Richard kick at a nearby piece of loose curb, sending the asphalt flying. “A nickname doesn’t mean that they’re together. You aren’t with me, Schneider, Ollie, or Paul, and we all call you Risch.”

 “That’s just my name, though! It’s not some cute little pet name!” Richard thundered, his real hand tugging at one of the many spikes on his head. “And Paul and I are close, why wouldn’t he tell me if he’s seeing someone?”

 “It’s not exactly like seeing people openly is safe in this business, Richard. It leads to complications, and you know that just as well as I do. Besides, I don’t think they are seeing each other. You know how Paul is.”

 Richard exhaled, smoke blowing out of his nose, and Till could all too easily imagine it pouring out of his ears, as well. “That’s beyond regular Paul, Till. He’s never been that close with any of us. At least not that…constantly.”

 Till watched Richard’s jaw clench, and he tried his best to diffuse the situation with what he hoped was the truth, and not just his own wishful thinking. “Paul’s known him since they were teenagers, Risch. It’s like us. They’re at a different level, they’ve lived together for years…Paul is already so comfortable around people, he’s probably even more comfortable around Flake, even if they haven’t done anything.”

 Richard finished his cigarette without biting a hole through it and promptly lit another, huffing out another displeased sigh. “And it’s not like we can just ask them directly. I mean, we could, but it would seem…out of place. Like we’re making fun of them, or something.”

 Till hummed, leaning against the side of the building to alleviate some of the pressure currently on his leg. “Well, we’ll have to ask indirectly, then, for the sake of all the plans you’ve made involving Paul without actually asking him.”

 A tense laugh from Richard. “Sure. At least I’m not the one who might go soft for some nerdy skeleton with an attitude.”

 Well, as well as he could read Richard, it wasn’t really surprising that Richard could read him right back. “Well, the keyword is ‘might’,” Till commented. “I can’t tell if I like him or not, and he’s certainly not what you’d call handsome, is he? He’s just…interesting. And if Paul is with someone like that, I’d like to know just because how odd a pair they would be.”

 Richard nodded, slowly, thinking about it but definitely not liking the possibility that Paul might be spoken for. “Right. So we’ll find out.”

 “We’ll find out.”

 Till didn’t have to say anything more, as Richard was already dropping his cigarette and stalking back inside to collect the others. Well, at the very least, they had a plan.


	3. Punk v Passengers

 They didn’t take off as soon as everyone was in the van, which took Till by slight surprise. No, Flake took his time folding himself into the driver’s seat and making sure everything was fine. And then when he was situated where he apparently needed to be, he turned around and looked at Paul.

 “You kept that CD, didn’t you?” he asked, and Till could see Richard squinting and Oliver looking curious.

 “Yep!” Paul replied with a bright smile. “It’s in the glove compartment.”

 Flake’s long arm reached across the van, across Till, and popped the compartment open before Till could even offer to do it for him. There were a jumble of CDs in there, most of them only in their cases because Schneider could only stay awake in the passenger’s seat if he was fixing them, but Flake found the one he was looking for easily enough. And before Till knew it, the van was vibrating with [Die Ärtze’s Schrei nach Liebe](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Np-3nZe12vw). So he liked punk music. Huh. A punk in the driver's seat. That would explain the look. Till glanced over at the newest gang member and saw a small smirk tugging at his mouth before their eyes met.

 “Do you want me to drive like it’s a getaway or normally?”

 “Get away from here, Flake.”

 The smirk stayed in place as Flake snapped his gaze forward, and they were off as he turned the music up louder. Till heard swearing, slamming, and laughing behind him, and didn’t know if he should be angry at the sudden take off or impressed at how quickly and smoothly they were currently speeding through traffic. He decided to be impressed for the moment, but only because he found himself grinning despite his death grip on the plastic handle above his seat. He could see now why Aljoscha’s gang had never been caught in recent years.

 “Please tell me there’s something you can’t do,” Till said over the music, and Flake shrugged one shoulder as he took a sharp corner, flinging Paul directly into Richard, and Ollie into Schneider.

 “I don’t like flying and I’m bad at holding a conversation,” Flake replied, and when Paul laughed behind them, Till saw Flake’s shoulders jump in what was probably a chuckle. “And…Paul, what else?”

 “You hog the bath, you dress badly, and you never say thank you when I make coffee in the morning!” Paul laughed, before Flake took another turn and sent the rest flying again. “And you never give a warning when you turn!”

 “See? There’s a list of things,” Flake informed Till, smirk almost a smile now.

 So he did have a sense of humor in there. Maybe he was more like Paul than Till originally guessed, though he certainly was nowhere near the level of excitable Paul was.

 “Wait, why do you make him coffee in the morning?” Richard asked, always seeing a chance and taking it. Till was going to leave that alone for the moment, but hell, might as well ask while in a moving vehicle.

 “We live together.”

 Flake’s answer was simple, and as clear as a muddy lakeshore. Apparently, simple questions got you nowhere with him, at least not if he didn’t want to give any more. Luckily for Till and especially Richard, Paul decided that yelling over the music was worth the effort.

 “Yeah, have for years! Same apartment and everything. He doesn’t get any easier to live with, as it turns out!”

 “And neither do you, Paulchen.”

 Till could see Richard in the rearview mirror and was unsurprised to see a very unimpressed and slightly accusatory patented Richard Zven Kruspe Face looking back at him. Till looked away before it got any worse for him. Alright, so Flake and Paul sounded like an old married couple despite the fact Paul was only thirty-one. Plenty of friends did that and even if they were more than friends, it wasn’t like that was his fault!

 “Wait…you two are still living in that shitty little one bedroom place where you used sell jackets?”

 It was Schneider who was asking from the back, his voice getting closer as he spoke. He must have been leaning forward to ask Paul.

 “One bedroom?”

 And apparently Richard was unable to help himself. Till, now fully prepared to grab someone if he had to, turned in his seat. Richard was staring at Paul with an eyebrow up, Ollie looked like he was trying not to laugh, Schneider apparently couldn’t believe he’d been interrupted, and Paul was just. Smiling. Of course he was. He hadn’t stopped being Paul within the last minute.

 “Yep! Why are you looking at me like that, Risch?”

 “Forget it.”

 Now fully sullen, Richard slid low in his seat and stared forward as he lit a cigarette, ignoring, or maybe just not noticing, the fact that Paul’s smile had slipped from his face. Till, knowing he would have to fix it when they weren’t around everyone else, turned back around, just in time to see Flake glancing back in the mirror and frowning. Then, to everyone’s general surprise, because they were now solidly headed back to the warehouse, Flake took a turn he hadn’t needed to, practically throwing Paul into Richard’s lap.

 “Oh, my bad. Turning, Paul!” he called over the music, and as soon as Till heard Paul laugh, Flake’s face was back to normal. Protective, in his own way.

 “Sorry, Risch, my friend is an asshole,” he heard Paul say, and then another laugh. Schneider. Had to be. “You okay?”

 “Yeah, fine. I didn’t burn you?”

 “No, you didn’t burn me.”

 Till knew that if Flake hadn’t turned the music up so loud, the conversation between Paul and Richard would have been quieter, if the softness of Richard’s voice was anything to go by. He’d heard that tone before, it being the one that Richard had always used when he was trying to apologize. Till grinned to himself, remembering that the last time he’d heard it was when Richard had been over at his house, the one he kept in the country, completely drunk, and had accidentally broken one of Till’s old swimming trophies. It had been an easy fix with some superglue, but Richard had still been inconsolable for a solid ten minutes after. The leader of the motley group was impressed that Richard was willing to extend that out in front of everyone, and not just himself and Paul. Little improvements.

 The rest of the drive back was quiet, except for the loud punk music and Paul’s singing along with it at the top of his longs because he really couldn’t stay quiet for very long when he was happy. Till couldn’t complain, though, since there wasn’t any actual argument and he hadn’t seen or heard any police lights or sirens for the surprisingly quick ride. Flake really was a good getaway driver. Aljoscha must be sore about losing him. Till would have been.

 “There. Did I do well or do I have to drive again, as well?”

 Flake’s question came after the van was turned off and the others started piling out, Paul dramatically stretching to one side. Till vaguely processed Schneider making a remark about how Paul ‘was doing that wrong and going to pull something’ but ignored the others in favor of the lanky man in the seat across from him. Flake was relaxing back in his seat, face angled toward Till with an eyebrow up, and it was too easy for Till to imagine him just taking up all the space he could and not caring a bit about it.

 “No. You did well. Better than I was expecting.”

 “How low did you have the bar originally?”

 Till paused, eyebrows knitting together. What made Flake think the bar was going to be low? “Pretty high, actually. I don’t work with amateurs.”

 “You didn’t set it low because I was coming from Aljoscha?”

 “No, why?”

 Flake shrugged a bony shoulder as he opened his door. “Most people underestimate us. I wanted to make sure that you didn’t.”

 Till watched in silence as Flake swung his legs out and exited the car, closing the door firmly behind him. Outside, he paused to watch Paul and Schneider, who were both apparently trying to outstretch each other. Till watched as Flake circled to stand behind Paul, made eye contact with Ollie, and then mocked his friend’s stretches. When Ollie laughed, Paul turned to look at Flake, who had already started acting like he hadn’t done anything, and Till found himself grinning. He had thought his gang had been complete, without any need for anyone else, but now there was this lanky punk, this scrawny man who told you what he was thinking and couldn’t be bothered with a standard, and Till knew he was wrong. Flake was a keeper, even if it seemed more than ever like he might be with Paul. Richard would get over it eventually.

 “Alright, boys, you can keep stretching inside. Ollie already looks like a tree in a storm.”

 Till’s words washed over the group, and he saw them calming down, grins still there but a bit smaller. And then Flake spoke up.

 “What, you aren’t going to show us how it’s done?” he asked, that little smirk on his face again as he watched Till.

 “No. I can show you how to lift weights, though.”

 With a smirk of his own, Till lurched forward and threw the skinny newcomer over his shoulder, like a sack of potatoes. The others, knowing this was coming, laughed at Flake’s protests, and Till carried him into the warehouse before dumping him on the floor. Flake was smiling.

 “Yeah, you’re in now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just really remembered that i'm not always good at keeping up with fic so!!! if you wanna message me about updates or just the fic at all just message me at probablyachangeling.tumblr.com  
> don't let me forget to update this one i actually like it!!!


	4. First Aid

 Now that the main tests were out of the way, the day was back to normal. Well, nearly. Schneider had dived back onto the couch and was swearing at the tv as Ollie watched, laughing, and Richard and Paul were right back into their Slap Jacks game. Till noticed that Richard was still sulking a bit, but Paul’s smile was pulling him out of it, apparently. That left Flake, who had taken to wandering around. Till couldn’t tell if it was because he was trying to get used to the space, or if it was because he didn’t have a place he felt like he should go to. Till wasn’t about to tell him where he needed to be, but he watched quietly.

 As Richard and Paul’s game seemed to get more heated, Till watched Flake disappear into what counted as the upstairs. There wasn’t much up there, just mattresses in case someone, or all of them, decided to crash after a job, or needed a place to stay if they were injured. Till wondered exactly what he was doing up there, and slowly made his way up the stairs just to see what he was up to. He wasn’t surprised to find Flake sitting on the ground with their rather large first aid kit, sorting through it. So, he wouldn’t just help Paul, then.

 “Everything in order, Doktor?”

 The thin man jumped, and Till thought he saw actual panic in his eyes for a moment before he shook his head, turning back to the contents of the box. Till felt himself frown.

 “There’s some things I’d like to have. You guys have a lot of bandages but not enough sutures.”

 The tone Flake was using made Till think of surgeons, like the one who had fixed up his knee. Serious, business-like, and almost cold. Deciding to be a good leader, Till took a seat next to Flake with some difficulty, and looked at the objects spread out before them. He didn’t look at Flake, saving his daily eye contact energy for when they weren’t alone.

 “So, what else do we need?”

 Till felt Flake’s gaze on the side of his face, but it went away quickly enough as Flake spoke again. “Triangular bandages. They come in handy for burns.”

 Till thought to Paul downstairs, heard his laugh, knew that was probably what Flake was thinking about. “Right, I can get those.”

 “Other than that, there’s just not many strong painkillers, but I can bring my own stuff.”

 Till found his interest sparked, and he shifted some bandages into a pile. “What’s your own stuff?”

 “Surgery things. I know someone who works at a hospital, they can get us what I would need to pull a bullet from someone.”

 “You’ve had to pull a bullet from someone?” Till asked, piling up more bandages.

 “Well, yes. And one from myself, Paul was shaking too much.”

 Till broke his rule of not looking directly at Flake for the moment and stared at the skinny man hard in some kind of shock. He had heard of people doing that sort of thing before, of course, but those were war time stories. Till himself had only ever had to pull knives out of himself, when the time came that he would be fixed up.

 “A bullet?”

 A small smirk pulled on Flake’s lips as he nodded, pushing up the sleeve of his too-large shirt. There was a scar on his bicep, and it was old. “It wasn’t a direct hit, just ricochet, but it was in there,” he replied, and Till was taken aback by the casualness of his tone.

 “And you had to do it yourself?”

 “Yes. Zimmerman and Aljoscha were on a different job, and it was just me and Paul. He was scared to hurt me and his hands weren’t very steady, so he was the nurse instead.”

 Till allowed himself a dark chuckle. “I would have made him.”

 Flake shrugged. “He was already yelling about how I shouldn’t have gotten in the way and how I was stupid, so I figured it would be easier if I had a drink and did it myself.”

 “You took a bullet for Paul?”

 Flake didn’t answer for a moment, packing everything back into the first aid kit with care. “Yes. I would have done it for Aljoscha, too. Or Zimmerman. Still would.”

 With that, the first aid kit was snapped closed, and Flake was standing, offering a hand to help Till up, though they probably both knew it wouldn’t be much help. Even knowing that, Till took the offer, heaving himself up more than Flake helped, but still thankful that he was getting help at all. It wasn’t Flake’s fault that he was heavy.

 “What happened to your leg?”

 Till paused, looking out instead of at Flake as he tried to find an answer that would do. “It was an old injury anyway, and then someone decided to try and destroy my kneecap as torture,” he said simply, but not quite managing to sound as nonchalant as Flake had about being shot.

 Flake made a humming noise, and Till saw him nod. “I guess it still hurts? Sometimes?”

 “Sometimes.”

 Till noticed now that they were walking back down the stairs, Flake keeping pace with him perfectly, despite the fact he probably could have been at the bottom by now, talking with the others. Or, well, probably talking to Paul. Or letting Paul do the talking for them both.

 “You don’t mind that it hurts, do you?”

 Till shook his head. “No. Not really.”

 As they finally made it to the first floor again, Flake was immediately called over to the dingy card table by Paul. Flake shook his head, in the way that fondness said he should, and headed over, followed by Till. The bulkier man figured that he might as well be near Richard if the card game got out of hand. Or if Richard got out of hand in general. Till slung a chair around next to Richard, and sat heavily, giving his friend a bit of a warning look. Richard really needed to stop pulling faces.

 “What is it, Paulchen?” Flake asked, pulling up one of the metal chairs next to Paul, and Till could see Richard’s grimace out of the corner of his eye.

 “I didn’t know if you wanted to play or not. Slap Jack.”

 “Really? That’s what you’re asking?”

 “Yeah! Please! It’s more fun with more people plus Risch can stop whacking me with his fake ass hand. As much.”

 Richard took the time to stick his tongue out at Paul, who only laughed. Well, there was some semblance of normal still left, despite Richard’s earlier pouting. Good.

 “Till, do you want to play?” Richard asked him, and Till found himself a bit taken aback before he realized what was happening. Risch was telling Paul that he had a friend, too.

 “Slap Jacks?” Till questioned, and Richard nodded, grinning. “Sure. Did you ask Ollie and Schneider?”

 Richard put his eyebrows down at Till, and the man had to hold back most of a laugh. “No…Ollie, Schneider! Wanna play Slap Jack? Or are you not fast enough?”

 “I’ll play,” said Ollie, voice quiet as always as he stood, unfolding all of his height in one easy movement. “Schneider?”

 “Uh. Fucking-shit-motherfucking demon!” Schneider dropped his controller, hands clasping in front of his mouth for a moment. “Yep. Need a break. Anyone want a beer?”

 “Oh hell yeah!”

 “That’s one for Paul. Anyone else?” Schneider asked of them, sparing the table a glance and getting four smiles in return. “Risch, what do you want, then?”

 “I’ll get it, hold on.”

 There was a blur of mostly black as Richard stood, and joined Schneider in the little kitchen. It wasn’t much, but the fridge held enough drinks, and Schneider managed to balance them all to the table. Richard returned with his own whiskey mix, sitting back where he was, now sandwiched between Till and Paul. He looked pleased with the seating.

 “Are we really playing Slap Jack, or can we play an adult card game?” asked Schneider.

 “What, like War?”

 “No, like poker.”

 “Schneider. Hold your fingers together for a minute and don’t move your thumb, and try to hold a hand of cards. Just for a minute. Two minutes. Fan them out for me.”

 Till pulled Richard back from where he was leaning over the table, and Schneider made a face, crossing his mismatched eyes at Richard. “He gets it, we can play something that doesn’t need a hand. Of cards.”

 Richard’s smile came back on his face when Till added that last bit. He didn’t like hand puns any more, at least not when he wasn’t making them. Every once in a while, Paul could make one, but only if they were drunk and in a good mood. Even Till wasn’t exactly in safe territory if he made jokes about the hand. Still, a close call avoided, Richard settled back into his chair.

 “So, is it Slap Jack or is it War?” Paul asked, scooping up all the cards and immediately handing them to Flake, who started shuffling them. “I want Slap Jack.”

 “You just want to smack me,” accused Richard, and Paul just laughed and said a maybe. “But I want to play Slap Jack, too. Till?”

 Till shrugged. He didn’t care either way, knowing that either game would devolve into all of them acting like idiots, especially now that there were drinks. They could be serious for some of the day, but now that they were out of the public eye? All bets were off.

 “Can you even play War with more than two people?” Ollie asked from where he was curled up in his chair, nursing his beer with his too-long legs underneath him, and Paul made a face.

 “Oh. No. You can’t. Slap Jack it is!”

 As soon as the words were out of Paul’s mouth, Flake was tossing the cards out. Till watched him carefully, noting that his hands were very fast. Till had to wonder if he ever played piano with those hands.

 “Till, you okay?”

 Till was pulled from his thoughts quickly by Richard’s voice, and as his sight came back into focus, he saw the others looking at him. Even Flake.

 “Yeah. Sorry,” he said quietly. “Just thinking about tomorrow’s job.”

 “We have a job tomorrow?”

 “Yes, Paul. Or I do. I have to take one of you with me and make sure someone’s got their money for Emu.”

 “Oh. Well, then I can drink more, you never pick me,” Paul joked, as he tipped back his drink. “Who are you going to take? Schneider? Risch?”

 “I was thinking Flake. Get him used to things. That sound alright, Flake?”

 Flake looked up at him, over the rims of his glasses, and did his little shrug. “Yes.”

 Till ignored the kick that Richard gave him under the table and announced that they should start the game, if they were going to play at all, and that while they could crash here all they wanted, he was going to go home, if they didn’t take up all of his night playing a little card game. Paul suggested that they order food, because now they absolutely had to take up all of Till’s night, no matter what the cost. Till grinned to himself as he tossed a card in. He’d made this mess.

 Still, he couldn’t find it in himself to regret it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> probablyachangeling.tumblr.com


	5. Real Fuckin Professionals

 Apparently, Till had lied when he’d told the others he was going to go home, because he woke up upstairs, before everyone but Schneider, who he could hear moving around downstairs. Well, that figured. Sitting up, he brushed his hair back from his face – he needed a haircut – before looking around at the others. Richard was closest to him, dead weight on his back, mouth open and limbs sprawled everywhere in a way that Till had been familiar with. The next mattress over on that side had been Schneider’s, and he was…Till listened. Not actually playing his game downstairs, so he was probably working out. Schneider was the only one of them who had something like a schedule to his day. Then, over by the wall was Ollie, curled up with his back toward the others. And that left Till’s other side.

 Paul and Flake hadn’t been on the same mattress when Till had gone to sleep, but that hadn’t stopped them from being on the same one now. At some point, Paul had moved from his to Flake’s and stayed there. Flake was just as he had been, curled up on one side with no fucking pants on because ‘he couldn’t stand them’, and then there was Paul, right under one of his lanky arms. Till wondered if he should move one of them before Richard woke up and had an aneurism, or if he should just let everyone wake up when the screaming happened. Tempting as that was, he did realize that he had a job to do, and hopefully he could get ready for it before Richard actually woke up. Yawning, Till made himself stand, and tiredly hobbled downstairs.

 “Morning, Till,” Schneider greeted, and Till wondered for a moment what exactly he was doing on the floor before he remembered that yoga was a thing that Schneider liked to do.

 “Morning, Schneider. Not on your game?”

 “Don’t want to wake anyone up.”

 Till nodded as he walked past, headed toward the hideout’s bathroom. “Good plan, keep that up.”

 Behind him, he heard Schneider chuckle, and he took a sort of satisfaction in the fact that he could shower, shave, and put on his suit without having to panic when Schneider suddenly screamed at the stupid thing. In fact, all of those things went very well, and when Till was dried off and in his suit, he decided it was high time to wake Flake up. He passed Schneider, who was now doing push-ups, because of course he was, and made his way up the stairs. Nobody had moved much except for Ollie, who must have switched sides in his sleep. Till, taking half an extra step, prodded Flake with his cane, getting what sounded like a sleepy ‘fuck off’ in return. Light sleeper.

 “Get up, Flake, we’re going somewhere, remember? You need a suit.”

 “I have a suit…” the bleach-blonde grumbled, his eyes screwing up against the reality that he was going to have to wake up. “’S at home…”

 “Then we have to go there and get it. You can’t go with me on a job looking like that.”

 One of Flake’s blue eyes cracked open, and fixed Till with a look, though it wasn’t as sharp as it would have been if Flake was fully awake or wearing his glasses. “Looking like what?”

 “Like a scarecrow with no pants, let’s go.”

 Flake grumbled, mostly fragments of words under his breath, but he started to move. For a moment, he made a face at Paul, who hadn’t even stirred, before pushing the shorter man away.

 “Always doing that…” Till heard him growl, scrubbing at his eyes before his hand blindly found his glasses, slipping them onto his thin face before he really started to look around. “Where’d my fucking pants…thanks.”

 Till had flicked the old jeans toward Flake with his cane, unable to hide the small smile creeping up onto his face. He definitely wasn’t dealing with a morning person, then. Or a person who cared about privacy, seeing as Flake was already standing up to pull on his pants without even asking Till to look away. At least he’d been wearing underwear and had a long shirt on.

 “So, you actually keep to Emu’s suit rule?” Flake asked, dressed now except for his ratty old boots, which he sat to put on. “Didn’t think you would care.”

 “I like to look professional when dealing with people who need to be scared,” Till explained simply, wondering exactly how long Flake had owned those boots of his. “Don’t you?”

 Flake shrugged. “I never dealt with people with Aljoscha, so I didn’t get to wear my suit much. People don’t look at me much. I guess I’m not much fun to look at.”

 Till knew that Flake’s words had meant to come out as a joke, but he recognized the seriousness behind them. He was practically a master in self-deprecation, and you couldn’t slip too much in the way of putting yourself down around Till.

 “Well, we’re changing that, as soon as we get your suit,” Till informed him as he moved toward the stairs. “I want to see you in something that doesn’t make you look like such a punk. You aren’t Aljoscha’s anymore.”

 Flake made a face, but Till spotted the beginnings of one of his awkward grins, and they walked out to the cars with a quick goodbye to Schneider, Till taking a moment to say if they weren’t heard from in the next five hours they might be in trouble and Schneider was in charge. This time, they left the van, and opted for one of the faster black cars instead, Flake taking the driver’s seat without any prompting. This time, Flake didn’t bother with music, leaving it on whatever station Richard had left it on last time they’d taken it out, and the drive to Flake and Paul’s apartment was primarily quiet. When they got to the building Flake apparently lived in, Till found himself a bit surprised. The place looked like it was barely standing.

 “You should probably come in,” Flake stated as he turned the car off. “People don’t know better than to not mess with people in nice cars.”

 “Right…” Till muttered under his breath, opening his door and lifting himself out.

 As they walked inside, Till was surprised again. The lobby was dirty, someone passed out in a corner, the elevator doors pulled apart. Flake still pressed the call button, though, and with a wrenching sound, one of the doors slid to let them in.

 “It looks worse than it is,” Flake commented. “The elevator works fine, it’s just the doors that are shit.”

 Till paused. “I see why Paul stays at the warehouse so much.”

 There was a small noise from Flake, something like a chuckle. “We used to stay with Aljoscha all the time. This place is pretty much just storage.”

 The elevator shuddered to a halt, and the doors opened on a new floor. This one didn’t look much better, the walls discolored by smoke and carpet dirty, but Flake walked through it with confidence to the end of the hall, where he produced a key from the top of the doorframe and let himself in. It was a little better in here, though it was still a mess, but what could Till really expect from Paul and whoever chose to live with him? He looked to Flake, who was staring at the general mess with his arms crossed, like he was trying to think of something to say.

 “Amuse yourself, I guess,” the blonde said bluntly, before walking off into what looked like a bedroom, closing the door behind him.

 Till chuckled, and looked around for anything that might be interesting, eyes settling on a photo album left out on a table. Across the cover was a piece of tape that Paul had scribbled his name and the word “Favorites” on, and Till sat on the low couch before grabbing it. He knew Paul liked to take pictures, but he’d never really seen them, and now he was greeted with…well, everything. The first picture was the apartment he was in, empty except for two figures on the floor. One he knew was Aljoscha, headband on and a smile on his face, and the other? Flake. He was young in the picture…around twenty, if Till had to guess, but still all skin and bone and glasses.

 The next few pictures were pictures of the city, taken from a balcony somewhere, or of somewhere out in the country. Whatever Paul thought looked nice at the time he was holding a camera, Till supposed. There were others, pictures from concerts, and he paused at one because there was a group picture. Aljoscha in the middle, beaming, arms around Flake and Paul on either side of him. Paul, nose scrunched up and a smile on his face, hand up in a rock symbol, and Flake, actually smiling, flipping the camera off. Till grinned, reminded of pictures of himself and Richard that were stashed around his own flat.

 There was one more picture that Till took the time to look at, and it wasn’t taken by Paul. It was a Polaroid, tucked in with the others, of Paul and Flake in what looked like the back of a van, looking almost exactly like they had that morning, except covered by a pink blanket. On the bottom, in handwriting that Till could only assume was Aljoscha’s, was the caption ‘My Boys’. Till nearly flipped the page, but heard the bedroom door click open. When he looked up, Flake was leaning in the doorway, in a suit that actually fit him, and shiny black shoes. He looked fucking good.

 “Is this presentable enough for you, Herr Lindemann?” the blonde asked, adjusting his tie, fucking smirking, and Till might be in real trouble, huh?

 “As long as you aren’t wearing those dumpster boots,” Till countered, standing and gently putting the photo album back on the table where he’d found it.

 “Hey. You don’t have to be mean to my boots even if Paul did snatch them from a dumpster. They’re fine.”

 Till shook his head as he left the flat, pausing to let Flake lock the door back, though he doubted if it mattered that much. There wasn’t much to steal, they didn’t even have a tv in there. And though he was sure that Paul and Flake liked whatever else was in there, he couldn’t see a random burglar taking much interest.

 “Let’s take the stairs down, I don’t trust that lift.”

 Flake glanced at him curiously, but nodded, and led Till to the stairway. Normally, someone would go at their own pace ahead of him, and wait, but Flake took the effort to slow down, staying just a few steps ahead. Till knew he didn’t take that long by himself, not with his long, uninjured legs. He was slowing down for Till. Till wondered if that was the doctor part of him, or a different part, a part of him that didn’t mind being friendly.

 “So, why did you pick me to come along? I can’t imagine I’m the first pick in case something happens to you.”

 Flake asked his question as they pushed through to the lobby, catching Till by surprise. “What, someone who’s basically a doctor isn’t a good pick to take on a job where we might get shot if we make a wrong move?”

 “I wouldn’t be able to get you out if you were unable to walk. I’m not that strong,” Flake answered, extending one thin arm and acting like he was flexing. Even without being able to see the bicep, Till knew there wasn’t much there.

 “So you call someone and they help you out. Richard or Schneider. I’m sure you have the number for the warehouse, just call and ask.”

 Flake nodded, obviously biting the inside of his cheek as his eyes scanned across the parking lot. He didn’t like the sound of that, but didn’t have any better plan. Till clapped a hand on his shoulder and gave him a bit of a shake.

 “It’s not going to happen, though. This guy is terrified of me. Besides, we won’t be unarmed. Don’t worry.”

 “I’m not worrying.”

 “Of course you aren’t, Herr Doktor. Come on, let’s go.”

 With that, Till grinned at the tall man, ducking into the car before Flake could even open his door. So maybe he shouldn’t be so quick to tease, but Flake was just as bad. Even if he was grumbling again as he folded himself into the car and started it up.

 “Where to?” Flake asked, face back to stone boredom, or as close to it as he could get.

 “I’ll tell you where to turn.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> probablyachangeling.tumblr.com


	6. Avoiding Disaster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this was so late! I've had a lot to do with finals coming up, but hopefully this is good enough for the wait

 They slowed to a stop outside of a butcher’s, and Till saw Flake made a face. He could only assume Flake didn’t like the thought of just how many sharp objects were going to be around them on this job, so Till did what he usually did. Reaching over, he rested a large hand on Flake’s bony shoulder, visibly weighing it down.

 “We brought guns to the knife fight,” Till reminded the man, tilting his head toward the backseat, where two pistols were hidden in their case. “We’ll be fine even if he tries anything.”

 “Wasn’t worried,” Flake grumbled, opening his door and sliding out, and Till had to hold back a quiet laugh. Laughing would probably only make him grumpier, and Till didn’t need Flake tagging along looking like a child who hadn’t gotten the toy they’d wanted.

 Till, shaking his head, got out of his own seat and opened one of the back doors. Two pistols, two holsters for belts. Till took the bigger pistol, the one he’d always preferred, slipped it into its holster under his jacket. Flake did the same with the other, movements quick and precise, as Till would learn was normal for him. For a moment, Till was worried that because Flake was so skinny, a pistol might be something that was a bit harder to hide on himself, but that fear went away when Flake adjusted his suit jacket, covering the weapon with more practice than Till expected. He knew he shouldn’t have been surprised, considering the display at the shooting range the day before, but he couldn’t really help it. Flake just didn’t seem like he should be involved in any of this.

 “Ready?” Till asked over the top of the car, and Flake gave him a nod, adjusting his jacket again, possibly just to have something to do with his hands.

 “Yes,” Flake answered, casting a glance toward the butcher shop. “As long as I don’t get a knife thrown at my head.”

 “You won’t.”

 A few minutes later, Till found himself to be very wrong about that. A butcher’s knife had just missed Flake’s head, probably sheering off a few tips of bleach-blonde spikes before it hit the wall behind them and clattered to the floor. Flake, swearing, was straightening up from where he’d ducked, and the butcher was…Oh shit.

 “Flake!”

 Till barely had time to push Flake out of the way as another knife came sailing through the air, slicing through where Flake’s shoulder had been, and grazing Till’s arm. Flake stumbled, caught himself, and drew his gun, but the butcher had disappeared into the back, the plastic strips covering the doorway still swaying.

 “Fuck. Till, are you?”

 “I’m fine, let’s go.”

 Flake gave a sharp nod before jumping the counter, waiting for a split second for Till make his way around before ducking through the plastic strips. Before Till could even go in after him, he heard a scuffling sound, like someone being punched, a yelp, and a gunshot, followed by a pained scream. Till froze, worried that he was about to deal with a butcher coming at him with a gun, but when a body came back into the front room, he found Flake was fine. He had definitely been hit in the face with something, but he hadn’t been shot.

 “You come talk to him,” the skinny man grumbled, thin fingers pressing to where the bruise was going to be on his face, apparently to see how bad it was. “Fuck.”

 “Where did you shoot him?”

 “The leg, he’s not going anywhere.”

 “What did he hit you with?” Flake’s glare might have unnerved someone else, but Till just chuckled as he brushed past. He would find out later, then. “Alright, come on.”

 Till, ignoring the pain it caused his arm to move it, pushed aside the plastic strips covering the cold room’s door and lumbered in. He was unsurprised to find the butcher on the ground, clutching his leg and groaning, laying in his own blood. Flake hadn’t hit an artery, but he had hit the man’s thigh, which would keep him still enough.

 “All that over a loan?” Till asked, looking down at the man with an eyebrow raised. “Now what do you think is going to happen to you?”

 “You’ll take my money…I’ll still owe.”

 Till shot Flake a look, just to make sure he hadn’t heard that wrong. “Flake, did he say he’ll still owe?”

 “He did,” replied Flake, looking positively bored as he checked over his pistol before casting a glance toward the front door.

 Till, with only a bit of a struggle, knelt on the floor next to the butcher. He’d looked pale before, but now it was even worse. Blood loss and panic could do that to a man, Till supposed.

 “Well, Herr Braun, you were right about the money. But you aren’t going to owe.”

 “My…my debt will be paid?”

 “Of course. You’ll be paying with your life.”

 The butcher started to try and scramble away, hands disturbing the pool of blood beneath him as Till slipped his own pistol from it’s holster and clicked off the safety. Till never could understand why they always seemed to want to move away. It wasn’t like squirming around on the floor was going to help anything. It didn’t give Emu his money. It also never got them away fast enough.

 When he leveled his gun and pulled the trigger, Till could have sworn he saw Flake jump a bit in the periphery of his vision, and he turned his attention from the body in front of him to the man keeping guard at the door. Flake didn’t look particularly shaken, but his mouth was a bit tight.

 “Start getting the money from the register,” he told the blonde, and was met with a nod before Flake disappeared.

 Slowly, Till stood, putting most of his weight on his cane to help him get upright again, before aiming a kick at the dead body on the floor. That’s what he got for making this harder than it needed to be. With one last glance around, Till left the back to find Flake pulling the money tray from the register.

 “It’s not a lot,” Flake warned him, holding it out. “Unless he’s got an office.”

 Till chewed on the inside of his cheek for a second as he thought, glancing around. There had been a stairway outside…

 “Let’s check upstairs. It’s probably an apartment.”

 Flake took a moment to turn the little sign in the window to ‘closed’ before he turned to look at Till. “Did he have a family?”

 “No. Lost everything to gambling debts.”

 Flake didn’t seem surprised. “Good. I don’t want to have to start threatening kids.”

 The search through the apartment upstairs didn’t take up too much time, since they had to hurry and their butcher downstairs hadn’t been very good at hiding his money. Flake, of course, commented on how hiding your box of money under your bed was just as stupid as hiding porn there, but Till, at least, was glad that it made their job easier. Once everything was found, including the man’s wallet, the two jumped into their car and Flake drove off, taking needless turns just in case someone had seen them leaving, and not doing anything reckless. He was smart about his driving nobody was chasing them yet.

 “How’s your arm?” Flake eventually asked, when he was apparently satisfied that they weren’t going to be seen, or at least not linked back to where they’d been.

 “Stings,” Till said shortly, and it did.

 Now that he had time to really look at his injury, it made him more annoyed than anything. It was a cut on his right arm, and although it wasn’t too deep, it was going to take a while to heal. And besides that, he’d need to get his suit fixed. He sighed.

 “I’ll bandage it up when we get back. Put pressure on it for now, you don’t want to be bleeding too much.”

 Till nearly rolled his eyes, but took the advice, clamping a hand over the wound and squeezing. That stung a bit, too, but Flake was right. It wouldn’t be fun to get blood out of the seats.

 “So…did he punch you?” Till questioned, tilting his head so he could look at Flake and the bright red mark that was blooming on his sharp cheekbone.

 “Yes,” Flake admitted after a moment. “It wasn’t that bad, though.”

 “What would have been ‘that bad’?”

 Flake shrugged a bony shoulder. “Nothing’s ‘that bad’ until I can’t fix myself.”

 “So that time you got shot wasn’t that bad?”

 Flake shook his head. “Nope.”

 Till fixed him with a disbelieving stare, and probably would have continued to stare at him like that for hours if they hadn’t pulled up to the warehouse. Then Flake was getting out and collecting the money and opening Till’s door for him and Till guessed he didn’t have much of a choice but to stop staring and get out of the car.

 “Hey, they’re back!” It was Paul’s voice to greet them, because of course it was, and he sounded excited. “Flake, did Till punch you or was it the guy?”

 “Not Till, luckily. Move, I have to go get the first aid.”

 “What? Why…Oh shit, Till, are you okay?”

 The first one to reach Till wasn’t Paul, but Richard, who was frowning as he looked at Till’s arm. “I thought you said that guy was terrified of you,” Richard commented, looking at Till seriously.

 “He was until he decided to throw a knife at Flake’s head.”

 “Good dodge, Flake!” Schneider yelled from where he was turned around on the couch, watching the situation with interest.

 “Thank you!” came Flake’s reply from upstairs, though from the sound of it, it sounded like he was coming back down with what he needed. Soon, he was standing in front of Till. “You’ll need to take your shirt off.”

 Till heard Paul snicker, and saw Richard make a face, but who was he to argue? Flake was the closest thing to a qualified doctor in the building. And once Flake had a clear space to work with, Till’s arm immediately felt like he was being stabbed again. Caught off guard, Till yelped.

 “Ow, fuck!”

 “I have to clean it, don’t whine,” Flake told him, handing off the bottle of alcohol to a giggling Paul, who was apparently used to playing nurse. “Hold still.”

 Till stood still, arms crossed over his chest, as Flake had Paul hand him wound-closing strips, carefully placed along the cut to keep it closed. After that was sorted, Flake wrapped an extra ace bandage around it.

 “What’s that for?”

 “Just in case.”

 Till noticed that Flake kept a hand over the bandage for a bit longer than he needed, before he was backing off and going to put his extras back, Paul chattering as he walked along with him. Till watched him go, and after a moment, he realized that Richard was still next to him. And staring.

 “Paul said he usually doesn’t have much of a bedside manner. Maybe he’ll leave Paul and be with you instead.”

 The bulkier of the men made a face at his oldest friend. “He’s not with Paul, but it’s not happening.”

 “If you say so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> probablyachangeling.tumblr.com


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